Open: An Autobiography

Now, I say to Darren, try to imagine a racket in that arm. And now imagine him jumping.

And now - imagine where the face of the racket would be and imagine the ball zinging off that racket. It’s like he’s serving from the freaking blimp.

Darren laughs. Karlovic laughs. He says, I would trade you my reach for your return game.

Fortunately, I know Karlovic’s height will also be a liability for him at times in the match.

Low balls will be problematic. Lunging won’t be easy. Also, Darren says Karlovic’s movement is dodgy. I remind myself not to spend energy worrying about how many times he aces me.

Just wait for the one or two times he misses a first serve, then pounce on that second. Those will decide the match. And though Karlovic knows this also, I need to make him know it more.

I need to make him feel it, by applying pressure on the second serve, which means never missing.

I beat him in straight sets.

In the third round I play Tomas Berdych, a tennis player’s player. I faced him before, nearly two years ago, in the second round of the Australian Open. Darren warned me: You’re about to play an eighteen-year-old kid who has real game, and you’d better be on it. He can rip the ball up both sides, he has a bomb of a serve, and in a few years he’s going to be top ten.

Darren wasn’t overselling it. Berdych was one of the best tennis players I’d faced all year.

I beat him in Australia, 6:0, 6:2, 6:4, and felt fortunate. I thought: Good thing this is only best of five.

Now, surprisingly, Berdych hasn’t improved much since then. His decision-making still needs work. He’s like me before I met Brad: thinks he needs to win every point. He doesn’t know the value of letting the other guy lose. When I beat him, when I shake his hand, I want to tell him to relax, it takes some people longer than others to learn. But I can’t. It’s not my place.

Next I play Xavier Malisse, from Belgium. He moves admirably well and has a slingshot of an arm. He features a meaty forehand and an acing serve, but he’s not consistent. Also, his backhand is mediocre: it looks as if it should be great, because he’s so comfortable hitting it, but he’s more interested in the way it looks than actually executing it. He simply cannot hit a backhand up the line, and if you can’t do that, you can’t beat me. I control the court too well. If you can’t hit a backhand up the line, I’ll dictate every point. An opponent has to move me, stretch me off the mark, put me in a position where I’m dealing with him, or else he’ll have to play on my terms. And my terms are harsh. Especially as I get older.

The night before the match, I have a drink with Courier at the hotel. He warns me that Malisse is playing well.

Maybe, I say, but I’m actually looking forward to it. You won’t hear me saying this often, but this is going to be fun.

The match is fun, like a puppet show. I feel as if I’m holding a string and each time I pull it, Malisse jumps. I’m astonished, yet again, by the connection between two players on a tennis court. The net, which supposedly separates you, actually links you like a web. After two bruis-ing hours you’re convinced that you’re locked in a cage with your opponent. You could swear that his sweat is spraying you, his breath is fogging your eyes.

I’m up two sets to none, dominating. Malisse has no faith in himself. He doesn’t believe he belongs out here. But as the third set starts Malisse finally gets tired of being pulled from side to side. Such is life. He gets mad, plays with passion, and soon he’s doing things that surprise even himself. He’s hitting that backhand up the line, crisply, consistently. I glare at him with an expression that says, I’ll believe that if you keep doing it.

He keeps doing it.

I see relief in his face and body language. He still doesn’t think he’s going to win, but he does think he’s going to make a good show, and that’s enough. He takes the third set in a tiebreak. Now I’m livid. I have better things to do than stand out here with you for another hour. Just for that, I’m going to make you cramp.

But Malisse isn’t taking orders from me anymore. One set, one little set, has completely changed his demeanor, restored his confidence. He’s no longer afraid. He only wanted to make a good show, and he has, so now he’s playing with house money. In the fourth set our roles reverse, and he dictates the pace. He wins the set and ties the match.

In the fifth set, however, he’s spent, whereas I’m just beginning to draw on funds long deposited in the Bank of Gil. It isn’t close. Coming to the net, he smiles, accords me tremendous respect. I’m old, and he’s made me older, but he knows that I’ve made him work, that I’ve forced him to dig deep and learn about himself.

In the locker room, Courier finds me, punches my shoulder.

He says, You called your shot. You told me you were going to have fun - you looked like you were having fun.

Fun. If I had fun, why do I feel as if I got hit by a truck?